


Growing on Me

by catherineflowers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Gentle Sex, Idiots in Love, so soft, soft, stocking stuffer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28452399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catherineflowers/pseuds/catherineflowers
Summary: Jaime and Brienne have never known anything like the life they have built together. They are both quite bowled over.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 31
Kudos: 112
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	Growing on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jencat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to the very lovely jencat. 
> 
> I couldn't resist her prompt of "Attempts at domesticity - especially when it's not something either one of them (or both of them) are used to, but they're trying".
> 
> It's so perfectly Jaime and Brienne!
> 
> Apologies if this is just bonkers, I wrote it at 3am and left the style intact because I think it suits.

**Jaime:**

You buy apples.

And a doormat – this house has never had a doormat until you lived here. I never thought about it.

You find a bowl, you wash it and you put the apples in it. You put them in the middle of the table, and I watch you. And I can’t stop watching you. Sunlight comes in through the window – it gets in your big blue eyes. You shield your eyes with your big hand to your forehead and brush your hair behind your ear.

The next day, you buy curtains. I only ever had a throw pinned up at the window before, and that fell down. I never had a doormat, or a bath mat, or a toilet roll holder. I lived here seven years before you, but never cared to make my house a home.

This house was not a home before you.

You put my books on my bookshelves, my coats on pegs, my towels on a towel rail. You have dinner ready if you’re home before I am and you cook it. Really cook it. You chop vegetables, add herbs and spices, follow a recipe. It’s actually a meal and not a conglomeration of things out of the fridge or snatched from the corner shop to stop up hunger. It tastes like something full of care. I am not used to this.

**Brienne:**

You smile at me.

I do things, and you smile at me. I light your face up like a gasp of golden sunlight when you see me, and it shocks me, every time. We sit together, watch TV or play games or read the papers and you want a piece of me.

No one’s ever wanted any part of me before.

You want my hand in yours, my arm across your lap. Your fingers flow through my freckles, soft and simple. Up and down. Up and down. You want my knee against your knee, your ankle twined with mine. Your finger idling around my palm. 

You want to play with me, and I have never been a thing to play with. I am not used to this.

**Jaime:**

You’re so warm.

You wear socks to bed, and t-shirts. Cotton knickers, the ones you buy in 5-packs from the supermarket. There are always sheets on the bed. They always match the pillowcases, too.

We make love, and I’m on top. You wrap your big warm legs around my hips and rock with me. You’re warm inside, as well. You pull the quilt up over me on top of you, so I don’t get cold while I make love to you. You hold my face in both your hands and I tell you.

I will never

never

never

not love you, Brienne.

I don’t think you understand.

**Brienne:**

You use words I’ve never heard and words I could never have trusted if I had.

You speak them with your eyes, and hands, and mouth. I’ve learned so many languages from your body. I try to speak them back to you, but sometimes I’m clumsy. Hesitant. A poor translator. Frightened of my accent, of my inexperience, of the fact that I’m an ugly fool. Maybe one day you’ll see those things about me.

But your words make my body speak, as well. It won’t shut up. It gabbles endlessly on your green eyes lit by lamplight, the soft squeeze of your silken lips on mine. It whispers at the slow stroke of your hand across the span of my belly, the wriggling tickles of your fingers on the thin skin of my ribs.

It screams the moaning begging groaning of your hips, surging like a storm inside me, splitting me like a tree caught by lightning, a slam of wrists to pillows and your face! Above me - your whites for eyes, your open mouth, your gathered breath. Your shiver-shudders of release.

Beautiful in surrender. And you will never

never

never

not love me? I’m not sure I understand.

**Jaime:**

I love waking up with you. I love that you never forget the alarm and that you get out of bed as soon as it goes off. I love to watch you stretch, and pull your hair out of its tie.

I love that you care if I eat breakfast. I care enough to make you breakfast, too. That’s new. I like to watch you eat.

The bread is fresh. I don’t need to sniff the milk. There are always eggs. I buy them, too.

For you. There’s coffee, and hot water for a shower. I put the heating on, and fold a towel on the radiator for when you get out. I put your work trousers in the dryer, so they’ll be warm for you. I make sure we have clean clothes.

I pack you sandwiches, and a protein bar—two little biscuits, wrapped in foil. A flask of tea. I want you to smile when you think of me.

**Brienne:**

You hold my hand as we walk to the bus stop. Talk to me non-stop. You’re always talking.

You point out people passing, make little pointed observations. Your slap of laughter … it’s _with_ me and not _at_ me, never _at_ me. You sprawl on the back seat of the bus like a naughty boy. Like a cool boy, except you let me sit there too. You throw an arm around me. Whisper gossip in my ear.

I say something too. Not so clever, not so wry. I think my humour’s sort of … dry? I’ve never been funny before.

But you laugh. You laugh _with_ me.

I was funny, and you _laugh_.

**Jaime:**

You come home tired. Kick off your shoes with a sigh. You have a carrier bag in your hand – a few essentials that you picked up from a shop. I take them from you, and I put them away, pausing to stir dinner in my apron and my slippers.

Some washing-up sponges. A block of cheese. Two new toothbrushes. Six rolls of toilet paper. A tin of tomatoes and some laundry detergent.

I put them all away, and I feel your love in every one. I am worth this. I am allowed this. This will make our lives better.

I find a candle and light it in the middle of the table. I open a bottle of wine I’d been saving. I find two plates that match.

You come back with a towel around your shoulders, wearing jogging bottoms. Your bare face flushed from the heat of your shower.

**Brienne:**

You bring me wine, and I take you in my arms. Your curls are loose, and they look so beautiful in candlelight. I touch them – they are mine to touch, and I want to touch them. I run my thumb across your lips – you kiss it. You kiss it because you love me. You do, you really do.

I kiss you, too. I take pleasure in the slow slide of your tongue on mine. That feeling is mine, as well. It belongs to me; I am allowed it.

I am allowed to be happy with you. To be happy at all. I am.

You smile at me, clink your wine glass with mine. Serve me steak and potatoes and a heap of steamed vegetables in bright, vibrant green.

You tell me things about your day. Complain about people, tell me how you bested them at work things. You wave your steak knife as if you fought them with it, slashing and jabbing as you talk.

Your smile is sweet and private. You get up to fetch dessert.

**Jaime:**

I serve you ice cream. Not just any ice cream – dinner party ice cream, the one embedded with the wafer-thin layers of chocolate.

You laugh when you see it, and ask me _what’s the occasion?_

I put your bowl in front of you. Fall to one knee beside your chair. Your big blue eyes are wide—your chin trembles.

I open the box and I …

**Brienne:**

There’s a ring—a ring as golden as you. A ring with a big blue stone and you … you are on your knee before me. Grinning with the ring.

The ring. You’re speaking. Asking. Will I? Can I? Would I like to?

I …

**Jaime:**

We eat our ice cream.

We eat our ice cream, and everything’s the same, except everything is different. The ring glitters on your finger as you lift your spoon to your lips. Your eyes glitter too – they are the same blue.

To think _you_ would care for _me_.

I love you. I really really do.

**Brienne:**

I don’t have words. My throat hurts.

The room, and you, swim in the blur of my tears. I don’t know what to say. To think that you …

you …

To think that _I_ belong with _you_.

I love you. I really really do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you again to jencat for the inspirational prompt, and to CaptainTarthister for the encouragement.
> 
> Big thanks to slipsthrufingers for organising the exchange, it's a treat!


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